_Cla._ The same for me, come home brave _Lidian_, 'Twas manly thrust, this token to the Lady, Ye have it Sir, deliver it, take breath, I see ye bleed apace, ye shall have fair play. _Enter_ Lisander. _Lis._ You must lye there a while, I cannot help you. _Lid._ Nay, then my fortune's gone, I know I must dye: Yet dearly will I sell my love, come on both, And use your fortunes, I expect no favour; Weak as I am, my confidence shall meet ye. _Cla._ Yield up your cause and live. _Lid._ What dost thou hold me? A recreant, that prefers life before credit? Though I bleed hard, my honour finds no Issue, That's constant to my heart. _Cla._ Have at your life then. _Lis._ Hold, or I'le turn, and bend my sword against ye; My cause _Clarange_ too, view this brave Gentleman, That yet may live to kill you, he stands nobly, And has as great a promise of the day As you can tye unto your self, he's ready, His sword as sharp, view him with that remembrance, That you deliver'd him to me _Clarange_: And with those eyes, that clearness will become ye: View him, as you reported him; survey him, Fix on your friendship Sir, I know you are noble, And step but inward to your old affection; Examine but that soul grew to your bosom, And try then if your sword will bite, it cannot, The edge will turn again, asham'd, and blunted; _Lidian_, you are the pattern of fair friendship, Exampled for your love, and imitated, The Temple of true hearts, stor'd with affections, For sweetness of your spirit made a Saint, Can you decline this nobleness to anger? To mortal anger? 'gainst the man ye love most? Have ye the name of vertuous, not the nature? _Lid._ I will sit down. _Clar._ And I'le sit by you, _Lidian_. _Lis._ And I'le go on, can Heaven be pleas'd with these things? To see two hearts that have been twin'd together, Married in friendship to the world, to wonder, Of one growth, of one nourishment, one health, Thus mortally divorc'd for one weak woman? Can love be pleas'd? love is a gentle spirit, The wind that blows the _April_ flowers, not softer; She is drawn with doves to shew her peacefulness, Lions and bloody Pards are _Mars's_ servants; Would ye serve love? do it with humbleness, Without a noise, with still prayers, and soft murmurs; Upon her Altars offer your obedience, And not your brawls; she's won with tears, not terrors: That fire ye kindle to her deity Is only gratefull when it's blown with sighs, And holy Incense flung with white hand-innocence; Ye wound her now; ye are too superstitious, No sacrifice of bloud, or death she longs for. _Lid._ Came he from Heaven? _Clar._ He tells us truth good _Lidian_.